Poem- "My American Dream"

http://gameuniverso.deviantart.com/art/My-American-Dream-673600447


"My American Dream"- poetry about my mom's nursing.


It’s just storms in bubbles, with a cod open, draping that name into world out and in.
A touch can leak, movement to all sores.
A subtle finish with enough ways to stir peace in an exotic mix.
Ears can really swim if the consciousness is naked.
Truth soothes hurt before hatred to dare.
As strangers call QVC, there’s mystery in an array of lights back again.
Fine, close doors keep paths in the house.
It’s just a little way with nothing to some.
As full dare, becoming into one full glance as murderers seek.
They are as ravenous as wheels on an electric chair, and they die on it.
Hmmm, full point.
There’s much to be long and the hurt matters.
What’s this metal in a pen, like some knife in a feather or blood in a drink?
And parents would choose children to see what anyone brought.
It’s too slow to profit for these words.
It’s when we don’t gleam for the sky blue moon on correct lands.
If my dream seems to be, there might be riches we’re confused for.
You see what’s underneath the hat, a plumber for gold going an extra life.
The world doesn’t have enough to drink.
And we are old when we are young.
We pass when we stay, taking years by their cotton-tails and spilling over madness.
Suppose now, for I am much greater than meat.
Chances get closed of the hours, of the papyrus in shadowing crayons.
It’s unlimiting little readers, as sayers can kiss the glue to music.
It’s the animals for our oxygen, with flowers near the galaxy, and the gravity for our voices.
Can it really be true that we sing with certain measures?
With how my dream has come, I see the blinds of a white rainbow fall.
Jokes can be tossed or livin’, days to signatures with a heavy glance as I search for one.
This statement is in a torrent of Sacto Ice and Bako Desserts.
It’s since California quite reaches itself.
It’s when shoppers are through the gap for snickers in a melting pot with a casual decay.
Since my dream is a game, dice can count up the same as dominos.
There’s a ruler for beauty and I can’t build it.
For too long there’s mine.
It’s rather a decoration of philosophy as a rich consumer.
And besides, springs may arrive right after the fall, and I drink from my swim in this dream.
Imagination is twisting its bubbles.
And citizens are the Snow Glare.
It’s the painting in a cell.
It’s with so many relations to hike over in a feel that I adore to greatly.
Mothers are kisses in apples that melt with seeds.
I can see dads by proper anchors who wait before spilling the beans.
Skies float beside sailing clouds in vagabondage, so there exist many oceans of poetry.
Button Poetry is a drink without much influence if you consider the scarcity of extravagant tales.
But, I’m looking for giant invisible walls.
I snare as you say, a fixed tool that didn’t need tools.
I’m talking about psychology in the pressure, a sign that is to form.
We can read the weather for all that’s gone.
We can sway back to full force, come again with envy.
My language rattles along in heavy sums.
We are the mystical roars in American dreams, the cold cut of sleep that heals over love.

*This poem is an urban work of literature about a patient’s independence; I’m the patient.